Hollywood Hayes – Regrets

Hollywood Hayes


Regrets, I’ve had a few, so few I can mention them all.

First, that time a girl was greeting me with a hug but I thought she was trying to kiss me so I closed my eyes and went for it/head-butted her.

Second, the time I tried to bleach my hair.

Finally, chugging a glass full of raw eggs after Gary Barlow egged me on thinking I wouldn’t do it. Just some raw eggs, quick burst of protein on the go.

Only reason I regret that one was because we were on a yacht in the middle of the Caribbean ocean and the eggs did not mix well with the swaying, heat and drink that was already in my belly. Sea Legs Hayes, they don’t call me.

At least I can blame booze for those three falters. This time, no such luck.

See, somehow, I managed to end up homeless.

I blame a gay French man named Pierre.

So what happened was I was looking for a new place to stay. Spotted online on trusty Craigslist that Pierre was renting out a room in a slick penthouse apartment in West Hollywood. Haggled down the price with my charm and wit. Pierre bit. Good to go.

When I first met Pierre he came across as honest, something you don’t find often in LA.

First, he told me I looked fat. Pudgy. I should go to the gym.

Next, he told me my hair was awful.

Finally, “You’re not funny. You shouldn’t do comedy.”

Pierre just speaks his mind, I told myself. Maybe that’s what I need, an outside perspective, a breath of cold, stinging, vicious air.

(At the time I was distracted by the plush penthouse, the view of LA and the fact he worked for a TV producer who wrote and produced shows I liked. Well dumb me.)

Convinced myself it would be funny living with him. Paid my deposit and first month’s rent. In I move.

Grand to start. But then…

“Your food in the fridge is disgusting,” he told me after two days, “Beans? Bananas? Who eats bread?”


“You eat like a poor person.”

Is he joking or is Pierre just a muppet?

Next day, knock on my door “Can you clean up your mess?”

What mess?

“You left a drop of water in the sink. That is how I get calcium.”

One drop.

“When you wash your dishes, use more soap on the sponge.”

I do.

“You don’t put enough.”

Is he messing?

“Can you wash your sheets too?”

I did, two days ago.

“Wash them again. I don’t like dirty people.”

Pierre’s not messing, just a psycho.

Does he not realise that your parents, God bless them, taught you to always clean up after yourself and just be the best person ever to live with?

He must not, I told my brain, It’s laughable, I know.

Went to sleep that night with my bedroom locked. Just to be safe. Next day. Woke up. Checked my phone. Read a newspaper headline:


That’s funny. America’s funny.

Realised the apartment was roasting. 82 degrees. Turned on the AC. Pierre bursts out of his room,


Oh Christ. Is Pierre going to kill me?

Ask if he’s joking, my brain whispers.

Are you-


Left the apartment smiling, nodding and wondering if I was about to be set on fire.

Later that day Pierre told me if I didn’t like his rules I should find somewhere new to live. Au revoir to you Pierre. Handed in my month’s notice, had to stay another bit, otherwise Pierre could keep my deposit. No chance.

Lined up a new abode. Savage spot in the Hollywood Hills. Woman renting it out couldn’t wait until I moved in, texting me, setting everything up, being sound.

And then the morning I was meant to move in, she disappeared. Never heard from her again. Ghosting, I believe the term is. Handy. Especially when you’re sitting in a truck with movers who are wondering where they’re going with your boxes of books and runners.

Right then I realised I was without a home. Two days before Christmas. Like an Irish Jesus, homeless in LA. Thankfully my friend the saviour let me crash at her place.

Slim pickings finding somewhere new the week of Christmas. Two options: Either a man cave/guest house on the side of a house where Nick Nolte used to live, or, move in with an obese older gent who told me “Rent is cheap because I’m not just looking for a roommate, I’m also looking for a new gay lover.”

So yeah, man cave on.


Mark Hayes is a comedian and author of three books including RanDumb, which was #1 on Amazon Humour. He can be found on Twitter and Instagram @trickaduu and on markhayes.tv.

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